


Crack the Shutters

by ester_potter



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Emotional Sex, Fluff, Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Not A Fix-It, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sad sad sad, Smut, Sorry guys, What-If, no beta we die like men, no happy ending, they have all my heart and soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ester_potter/pseuds/ester_potter
Summary: Missing scene/what if from 4x08, tags are up here and I don’t have a summary to write cause it’s basically just sex and many, many tears (my tears, to be precise).This is the English translation of my last fic: I’m Italian and I have to warn you, I am NOT a translator (although it used to be my dream job).It probably sucks but please have mercy, quarantine ruined my neurones.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 13
Kudos: 79





	Crack the Shutters

_“You call the shots babe  
I just wanna be yours  
Secrets I have held in my heart  
Are harder to hide than I thought  
Maybe I just wanna be yours  
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours”_  
  
  
\- the Arctic Monkeys   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Martín lies his forehead on the pillow and takes a choked breath, the hundredth in a long series. He is hyperventilating and his best friend’s weight on him doesn’t help, but he won’t complain in any way. Andrés’ whole perfect, statuesque, elegant figure seems to match his perfectly, confirming what he already told him, what Martín himself always thought: " _You and I are soulmates_ ".  
-Andrés... - Martín sighs, trying to get as much air as possible into his lungs and to meet the other’s thrusts in the meantime. - Oh God...  
Andrés is so good in the way he moves and ponders his strength, Martín can’t help but wonder whether for him this is actually different from sex with a woman, or he's simply replicating what he did with Tatiana and all the other women in his life until yesterday. Jealousy makes him grit his teeth, but then again, he doesn't even think about complaining and he reaches back instead, he finds Andrés' nape and pulls his hair, not to hurt him - never - but to bring him closer, he _needs_ to feel closer to him.  
-Tell me how you want it - Andrés whispers directly into his ear, eliciting shivers throughout his body. - Tell me, Martín.  
Andrés has one hand on the bed to maintain balance and not fall on his friend, while he spreads his legs with the other and then wraps his arm around him again. - Like this? - A powerful thrust has Martín moan louder than he has done until now.  
-Yes - answers Martín, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his right hand on the bed, on top of Andrés’. He already regrets - if he can talk about regret, during what he can certainly define the most beautiful moment of his life – not being able to look him in the eye; he wants to touch every part of Andrés he can reach.  
-I can't hear you - continues Andrés as he thrusts slowly but precisely, accurately, intensely.  
-Yes -Martin repeats. - Yes... whatever you want.  
"Do what you want to me" he thinks desperately. "Take what you need, my love. Just don't stop, don't ever stop." It's on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't say it. It's not that he lacks courage; they simply don't need words, they can see right through each other without effort, it's always been like that.  
Just when Martín thinks it couldn't get any better, that everything is as perfect as they are together, Andrés withdraws his hands and the weight on his back vanishes. - Turn around.  
Martín does and finds him naked and disheveled as he had left him, kneeling behind him. For a second, just for a second, the heat in Martín’s lower abdomen fades and he even forgets about the painfully pulsating erection between his legs, begging for relief. He just wants to stop, take a few moments to print this image in his memory, carve it in his heart: a different Andrés from the one he always knew, hungry for him, _because of him_.  
"Mitochondria," he thinks. "Yeah, right."  
-What?  
-Turn around - repeats Andrés firmly, grabbing his shoulders to make him do it himself. Martín obeys and lies down again, annihilated by the movements of his friend lying between his legs, overpowering him. He doesn't even have time to mentally prepare himself, Andrés has already lifted his leg and he’s inside him again, but now it's different, it's better.  
-Oh fuck - screams Martín, cursing himself short after. "If the monks hear us, we'll give them a heart attack."  
A crooked grin appears on Andrés' face, the same as when he gets an idea or tries to talk someone into doing what he wants, confident he can succeed. It makes him understand that he's thinking the same thing, and that the idea amuses him. He rewards him with a kiss that Martín reciprocates as if he was drowning and his lips were a breath of fresh air... Which they are, in a way; Martín has realized it since their first kiss a few minutes ago - or hours, he doesn't know. He's lost track of time and space, and as far as he's concerned the world could end, outside that monastery lost in the Tuscan outback, and he wouldn't give a damn. He wouldn't even notice. He has discovered that he’s addicted to the feeling of Andrés' hair between his fingers, so he indulges his new vice as he kisses him; he draws a map of his mouth from teeth to palate, caresses his tongue with his own and sucks it softly.  
Andrés kisses him back, ravenous and possessive as he is in everything he does, until they have to breathe again. They pant as they stare into each other's eyes and Martín moves his hands away from his hair to frame his cheeks, as if he fears he might escape. He knows he's going to start thrusting again and he wants it more than anything else, but first he feels he has to say it out loud; he has to let down the weight he’s been carrying for ten years. He's not afraid anymore, because he knows this is the right time, maybe the last.  
-I love you - he says, caressing his cheeks, adoring and sincere. But it’s not enough for him, no words will ever be enough to contain the enormity of what he feels towards him... So he adds the best alternative he can come up with, even if it's just remotely close to the truth. – You’re my life.  
Andrés stares motionlessly at him for a few seconds and then smiles – a smile Martín immediately recognizes: he has already seen it that evening, just before kissing him, when he had touched him in a way that did not imply mere friendship, for the first time. Andrés had seemed uncertain back then, almost intimidated by Martín's initiative, however absurd it might be to associate such an attribute to someone like him. Martín had been proud of himself, seeing him like that. It's totally different now. He doesn't know what it is, but he has never seen him smile like that with Tatiana, nor with any other of his previous wives, and that's enough for him. It's more than he ever thought he deserved. Andrés bows his head toward him and Martín closes his eyes as he feels his lips on his eyelids, forehead, nose, cheeks and chin.  
"This is _heaven_. It must be. There can be nothing better," he thinks.  
Andrés starts thrusting again, fast and deep, their moans as background noise, and hides his face between Martín’s shoulder and neck. - Don't forget this moment, - he orders him, almost threatening, but it's only a whisper, - don't ever forget it.  
Martín mentally curses himself for having thought of all of this as something eternal. There's nothing eternal. It's just romantic, tragic, but not eternal. Andrés wants to leave him something to remember when it's over, because it will be over, whether they want it or not. "It’s all going to end."  
Partly out of anger and partly out of possessiveness, Martín caresses the entire length of Andrés's back, scratching him in the process, and finally stops on his hips to push him further inside. - I won't forget this - he manages to say between the shouts.  
-Never - insists Andrés, increasing speed.  
-Never...  
Eventually, it becomes impossible to think clearly. He doesn't even need to touch himself: his cock is squeezed between their bellies and the friction is more than satisfying, combined with Andrés' big, hot, pulsating cock hitting the right spot inside him with every shot.  
He feels him inside in every sense, there's just Andrés, everywhere: he fills his eyes with him and basks in the contact of their bodies and the bites he's leaving on his neck and collarbones, he's tuned on his hoarse, trembling voice, savors the unmistakable taste of his kisses and gets drunk on his smell – which is no longer cologne, it's just Andrés, Andrés, _Andrés_.  
He only realizes he’s screaming his name when he stops doing it and moans loudly: as if he’s being struck by a lightning, Martín throws his head back mouthing and curls his toes; he literally sees stars behind his eyelids. It’s like he can touch them, actually. To top it all, he can feel Andrés emptying himself inside him as he strengthens his grip on his hair and thigh, stiffens, trembles and finally collapses on top of him.  
Martín doesn't know how long they stay in that position: Andrés is completely abandoned on his body, his face still hidden in the hollow of his neck and his fingers tickling his hip. Paradoxically, his weight on him makes him feel light, protected. At home. His eyes wander around the ceiling as he caresses his hair with one hand and traces abstract figures at the base of his neck with the other. He almost hopes he will fall asleep, if it means holding him a little longer. He considers the idea of persuading him to stay, but he couldn't even if he wanted to; he is still absorbed in a huge post-orgasm bliss and doubts he will be able to say anything sensible. Besides, he doesn't want to be the one that breaks the silence. It’s up to Andrés.  
-I love you, Martín – he says after a few minutes, without lifting his face to look at him.  
Martín’s heart skips a beat at those words, which is ridiculous, considering what they just did. But Andrés' tone suggests there’s something else and Martín knows what it is, so he just closes his eyes and waits for it to kill him.  
Andrés stays silent for a while, as if to choose the right words, and then finishes: - ... but my brother is right, we must part ways.  
Tears come and fall.  


**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine day number... I've lost count, and this is my situation: I'm home alone miles away from my family, my roommates have fairly abandoned me when they had the chance, my university’s online lessons are overwhelming me and... let’s just say I thank God every day for TV series and books, which once again are confirmed to be the best things I can get lost in to distract myself from this absurd situation.  
> Most of all, I’m grateful for La Casa De Papel and these two _gilipollas_ that were able to make me emotional in a five-minute-long scene, and I mean waaaay more emotional than I’ve been in almost two months of apathy and annihilation. Seriously: who the fuck will ever get over this season? I certainly won't. And I love them for it. I love them and I hate them.  
> That’s all, folks. I hope you're all okay.  
> Let’s keep holding on, guys. <3  
>    
>    
> PS. I apologize if Andrés may have seemed to “soft” sometimes. I’m afraid I might have made him a little too OOC… The thing is, I needed a scene with **at least** a little fluff. For my sake.  
> Oh, I got the title from a song by the Snow Patrol.  
> I'm done, I swear. Bye. :)


End file.
